VA: Reflections
by Samwysesr
Summary: Thirty days of prompt inspired drabbles/head canons in varying povs. Primarily Rose and Viktoria Belikova, though others will appear from time to time. Rating it M just to be safe since some of the prompts are sexual themes. Please be advised that there will be multiple chapters with the same theme but different narrators. Enjoy
1. Chapter 1: Rose—Childhood Memories

December Task: Thirty days of character development—Rose  
>Prompt: Favorite childhood memory<br>W/C: 1, 461

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><p>Talking about my favorite childhood memory is something that isn't easy for me—in fact, it's actually really, really hard to do. Things that have happened recently have tarnished most of my happy memories quite a bit—but I guess I have to answer truthfully, no matter how much it might hurt.<p>

By the time I was seven years old, it was a given that I'd go home with Lissa whenever we had time off from school for holidays or a long weekend—which was really great, since it gave me a chance to see what a normal, happy family was like. We always had a good time at her house, playing with all her toys or watching movies on the gigantic TV the Dragomir's had in the family room—though we sometimes argued about what we would watch, since she always wanted Disney movies, which Andre and I didn't really like. Usuallywe ended up giving in—all Liss had to do was pout and we melted like putty—but that's another story altogether.

As great as everything was at the Dragomir's… there was one little problem. Not all of the activities Lissa and Andre wanted to do were things that I could take part in—like riding their bikes up and down the driveway and paths that wound around their estate. My best friend tried to make it work—but the first time her mom caught me balancing precariously on the handlebars while Liss pedaled up and down the driveway… she came completely unglued, having such a hissy fit about safety that it brought our fun to an immediate halt. After that, Liss tried to pretend her bike held no interest for her—but every time her older brother would race outside to ride his, she'd watch him with a look of heartbreaking longing on her face.

It took a while for me to convince her that I _wanted_ her to ride without me; I was much better at hiding my real feelings than she was, so eventually I had her believing that I didn't care one way or another if I actually got to ride myself—I told her that I'd much rather _watch_ anyway. Her face lit up when she finally bought it; immediately she raced for her bright pink bike and took off after Andre—leaving me to flop down underneath one of the giant old oak trees that lined the driveway, trying to ignore my _real _ feelings. Every day I'd sit there and watch them for hours—feeling a stab of envy as I imagined how the wind would feel on my face as I pedaled furiously up and down the path. She was my best friend; I wanted her to do what she loved—but I couldn't help but wish that there was some way I could take part too.

One afternoon—about a week after Rhea put the ban on our tandem biking—I was sitting watching Andre attempt to teach Liss how to pop a wheelie; it seemed so simple, but she just couldn't get it—which I found incredibly frustrating. I _knew_ I could do it if I only had the chance—which made me more than a little grumpy; I was picturing myself surprising them both by performing the trick flawlessly—when a voice startled me, pulling me out of my thoughts.

"Hello Rosemarie… why are you sitting here all by yourself?"

I barely registered the kind, cultured voice, my eyes still locked on Lissa—who was pouting up at her brother as he patiently demonstrated for the fifty seventh time. "Liss wanted to ride her bike… I'm watching."

"Don't you want to ride too, dear? I hardly think sitting here observing would be a satisfying pastime for such an active child." He reached down, tugging at my braid—earning a scowl as I shifted away from his hand.

"Can't—Mrs. D says it's not safe for both of us to be on the bike at the same time."

"Surely you could take turns then?"

I shot him an incredulous look, thinking he was an idiot for even suggesting such a thing. "No we can't—Lissa _ loves_ riding her bike. I'd _never_ take it away from her… not even for a minute or two."

"I see… well… that does complicate matters, doesn't it?" He studied me for a moment, his face thoughtful. "Would you please do me a favor Rosemarie? I just remembered something I need to attend to in town… could you go and tell Eric I'll be back in a few hours? That's a good girl… run along now."

Nodding, I got to my feet; I was already accustomed to doing whatever the Royals asked me to do—obeying without question was one of the first lessons the Academy drummed into dhampir children.

By the time he returned, dinner was already over; as soon as they'd finished eating, Andre and Liss had run back outside, leaving me all alone—not that I minded… I was polishing off my second piece of chocolate cake and enjoying every mouthful. I was almost done when Lissa shouted; she screamed out my name so loud that I could hear her as clearly as if she was standing right beside me—propelling me into movement so fast that my chair hit the ground behind me as I ran.

I expected to find her hurt—she had a bad habit of falling off her bike, especially when Andre was trying to teach her tricks—but instead she was just standing beside the driveway with a look of complete glee on her face , watching her Uncle's guardian struggle to unload something from the trunk of his luxury car.

"Now you can ride with us Rose!" She was so excited that she was hopping up and down—but I didn't understand why.

Her Uncle turned to smile at me, his beautiful green eyes locking on mine—even though the words he spoke were directed at my best friend. "Rosemarie is a very loyal friend Vasilisa—and that is something that should _always_ be rewarded. You need to remember that—it is a very important lesson that far too may Royals forget."

The guardian moved aside—finally I could see what he'd been struggling with. I stared, open mouthed as he wheeled a brand new bicycle over towards us—stopping right in front of _ me. _ It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen—just like Lissa's but pale blue and not pink, with a basket on the handlebars and streamers on the hand grips. It even had a bright silver bell—something Lissa's bike was lacking.

I was… completely speechless.

"Do you like it child? I seem to remember you favor the color blue." The Moroi man stooped down, his brow wrinkling with concern. "Rosemarie? Are you alright?"

"Is it… really for _me? _ It's mine to keep? Forever?" I tore my eyes away from the bike, wondering if it was all a joke.

"All yours—and I expect to see you racing around on it whenever I stop by."

Overwhelmed, I burst into tears, throwing my arms around the man in front of me—forgetting for a moment that it was completely improper, since he was a Royal Prince. "Thank you! Thank you so much! I never got anything so beautiful before, sir!"

"Now none of that! What have I told you child?" He scooped me up, depositing me on the bike seat—then gently traced his fingers down my cheek. "You can call me Uncle Victor—just like Vasilisa does."

It was the first time in my life that I'd been given a gift that wasn't something I needed—it was something given to me for no real reason other than the simple fact that having it would make me happy—and I loved that damned bike more than anything. I rode it every chance I got, even long after I outgrew it—and every time I got on it, I thought about the man who gave it to me with complete adoration and devotion.

Remembering things like that… it makes it really, really hard for me to hang on to my hatred towards him, despite all the shitty things he did as time wore on. Because once upon a time, as hard as it is to believe, he was a decent, kind man, with a big heart… one who actually cared about making a little dhampir girl happy. And deep down, that little girl still loves him and always will… no matter what he's done.

That… is what hurts the most—admitting that a part of me still loves Victor Dashkov—and knowing that in the end… I'm the one that killed him.

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><p>My role play group is doing thirty days of character development for the month of December; every day there will be a prompt for a drabble or head canon to be written from. Since these wont' be strictly drabbles, I'm making a new collection for them; each daily prompt will have a version for several different muses, though I can't promise I'll get them all posted every day—I'll probably update them in batches. (Also, I won't be doing the prompts for every muse in my head, that would take way too long, lol. They will probably be predominantly Rose and Viktoria, with a few Alberta, Abe and original characters thrown in the mix.) Enjoy.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2: Vika—Childhood Memories

December Task: Thirty days of character development—Vika  
>Prompt: Favorite childhood memory<br>W/C: 2, 232

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><p>I'm not really sure what you're expecting from me—I've already talked about the memories that make me happiest; the times I spent with my siblings in the meadow and the night my brother saved my life are the ones at the top of the list. That's not to say I don't have other happy memories—my family was full of love except when my father came around. I'm sure you don't want to hear about birthdays or Christmases… that would certainly bore you to tears. Perhaps… yes. I'll give you a memory about my Grandmother—but I warn you, like so many of my stories, there is pain tightly wrapped around the joy of the moment, trying to leach away the happiness. Still, it was the first time my Grandmother showed me favor… so that is what I will speak of.<p>

I remember the day quite clearly, though I couldn't have been more than four at most; it was a Saturday, and Yeva had taken my brother and sisters to Borgstra—a nearby settlement to visit distant kin. I did not accompany them—my mother insisted I stay home; she wanted me to spend time with my father—who was due to visit. That afternoon was one of the few times my father touched me with kindness—which tells you a lot about my relationship with the man. In four years he had not given me a single hug or kiss—in fact, he barely noticed me at all—but this time… perhaps because my siblings were absent—or maybe because he was bored—he pulled me into his lap, cuddling me against his body as he gently stroked my hair.

My mother had taken great pains with my appearance that day—an hour had been spent patiently styling my hair so that it fell in thick, long curls down my back. She'd made me wear my prettiest dress—It was the palest shade of pink, like the inside of a flower petal, with a stiff lace petticoat that rustled softly when I moved—and the shiny black shoes that I usually wore to church. When I was ready, she'd perched me on the edge of the couch so I wouldn't get wrinkled and ordered me not to move—I sat there like a statue for almost two hours, waiting for him to show up.

When he finally arrived, all her hard efforts actually seemed to have paid off—as I said before, for the first time, he seemed genuinely pleased to see me. He complimented me on my dress and tugged playfully at my curls, tickling me and teasing me until I giggled, basking in the rare attention.

"She's a lovely child Olena—but it's a shame she doesn't look more like her sisters. They're much more Moroi in their appearance… they take after me. This one… she's like Dimka. A dhampir through and through."

I glanced over at my mother, not understanding what he meant—was there something wrong with the way my brother and I looked compared to our sisters? She saw my confusion, reaching out to stroke my cheek—hesitantly trying to soothe me. "They're all beautiful children… we've been very lucky, don't you think?"

"No. I don't." His mood shifted abruptly; he shoved me off his lap, glaring down at me when I hit the floor with an expression of distaste on his face. "Karolina and Sonya… you'll be able to find a non-Royal to take them off your hands. They have an aristocratic look about them, despite being dhampirs. This one though… no Moroi would ever want her for anything other than a few hours fun. Mark my words—she'll end up a blood whore or with a brood of children and no husband… just like you."

Mama looked shocked—and more than a little hurt. "Leonid… please! Don't be like this… don't be cruel. Can't we have a nice evening without—"

His palm cracked across her face, silencing her. "Do not talk back to your betters, woman! Why I even keep coming here is a mystery—I think you and that old woman bewitched me… trying to trap me!"

"You said you loved me..." she whispered brokenly. "You pursued me—not the other way around!"

"I must have been drunk… or crazed. You're lucky I even bother with you! You're nothing! Blood whore trash! Look at that child—she looks like a fucking peasant! She doesn't resemble anyone in my family at all! She looks like—"

"Me." My grandmother's voice was low and dangerous—like the sound a tiger makes right before it roars. She slammed the front door shut behind her, slowly stalking into the room. "She looks like a Belikov—a family that can trace its lineage all the way back to Saint Vladimir and his Anna—so when you speak of my family you will do it with respect Leonid Zeklos—_or I promise…you will regret it."_

At the time, I was too young to understand why my father turned pale—I didn't know about the whispered rumors in the village or understand why people avoided her. That day, all I knew was that my grandmother was terrifying in her rage. Her eyes were almost black—like empty pits in her face—and I swear to you it almost seemed like she was growing taller before my eyes… but then again… I was four years old and prone to imagining things.

Despite his apparent fear, he managed to stand up to her—at first. "She lied to me! You cannot deny it old woman! She promised me—"

"My daughter promised you _nothing._ You heard Ekaterina talk of the legends and sought my Olena out—I told you both _then_ that it wouldn't work. I _told_ you she didn't have the gift. You ignored me—that was _your _ mistake, not hers."

"Lies! All of it is nothing more than lies to make your family seem important! You might have my great aunt wrapped around your finger with your wretched fairytales—but me… I see the truth!" He grabbed me by my hair, jerking me to my feet—ignoring my cry of pain as he shook me like a rag doll. "You both lied in hopes she would trap me with these monstrous children! Well I fooled you both—I was already married! I have a Royal wife and son—what do I need with these brats?"

Yeva didn't respond—she simply closed her eyes and raised her hand, pointing at him; my father released his grip on my hair, panic fleeting across his face. "Stop that! I demand you stop pointing at me old woman—"

"If you ever call me a liar again, boy… I will find your Royal wife and son and tell them all about _this_ family." Yeva's eyes didn't open—she truly didn't fear him.

I did. I scurried across the floor on my hands and knees—hiding behind my grandmother's skirts.

"If I killed you no one would punish me—thou shall not suffer a witch to live!" My father took a step towards her, his handsome face twisted into a look that was almost crazed.

Yeva started chanting in a language I didn't recognize—my father froze in place.

"What are you saying? What does that mean? Olena… what is she doing?"

"Mama… stop this… please. It will be all right—it was just a silly quarrel." Mama moved to stand beside him, her hand stoking her arm; he shoved her away, glaring at her for a moment as if he might strike her—but Yeva made the strangest sound, pulling him out of whatever violence he was contemplating.

Her eyes shot open—full of fire and anger—like the eyes of the angels on the walls of the church, ready to smite God's enemies. "Get out! Get out of my house! You are damned, Leonid Zeklos! Hear these words and commit them to memory—when you are lost in the dark cold wilderness, the child you scorn will lead you home; when you are suffering from a raging thirst, she will end your agony. The dhampir you detest will be your salvation—_you are cursed! _I have seen what awaits you!"

He screamed—no words, just a sound of horror—bolting for the door; my mama started sobbing but my grandmother didn't comfort her—instead, she sank down on the ground looking tired and dazed. "You brought the devil into our home Olena… this is all on your head."

"He's sick mama… he can't help it. He's right—it's my fault. I thought—"

"Get out of my sight," my grandmother hissed, " I cannot bear to look at you right now. To allow that Moroi scum to treat you like this… in front of your child no less! Go on! I do not want you near me—not until I have calmed down!"

Mama ran from the room, still sobbing; a moment later I could hear her feet pounding up the stairs. I stood, prepared to follow after her—but my grandmother stilled my movement by grabbing onto my hand. "No kotyonok. You stay here with me—leave your mother alone to think about the things that I have said."

"But she's crying…" I hesitated, instinctively wanting to comfort my mother in any way I could.

"Tears of self-pity—as worthless as the man she foolishly gave her heart to. My daughter has lost much of the woman she once was… but in time… she will find her way again."

Yeva shifted, pulling me into her lap—a movement that surprised me. I knew my grandmother loved me very much, but she wasn't overly affectionate; she expressed how she felt with heartfelt words, not with comforting gestures.

"I am sorry you had to see that, little one. Sorrier still that you had to spend time with that wretched excuse for a man."

I rested my head against her chest, slipping my thumb into my mouth; we sat there in silence for a few minutes before I removed it and glanced up at her with awe. "You scared him away."

"I did." She smiled—rather smugly. "He believes what most people do—that I'm a wicked old witch who wants to put a curse on him or steal away his soul."

"Is that what those words were? A curse?"

"No child… sometimes when the sight visits me… I can hear the angels speak. Their voices fill me like the peal of a thousand crystal bells, resonating through my soul. When that happens… the words that come out of my mouth are not mine but theirs, spoken in the angelic tongue that is only known to them."

"But you understand them? The words?" I stared up at her, entranced by what she said.

"I do not. I understand the visions they show me—not the language they speak."

"But… angels don't curse people, do they? You said he was cursed, Grandmother."

"He is… but not by me or any of God's chosen warriors. It is his madness and greed that will curse him, kotyonok." She sighed, nudging me gently. "Come… help me to my feet—the sight warned me what was waiting here, so I sent your brother and sisters to play in the meadow. We must go and collect them, then start dinner—I am sure your brother is starving by now."

I stood up, trying my best to help her rise—not an easy task for a four year old, but somehow I managed. "Grandmother… are their voices beautiful? The angels, I mean."

"More beautiful than words can describe, my darling one… someday you will see what I mean. I was truthful with your father when I said you were just like me. I have seen it in a dream… I can sense what sleeps, deep inside of you."

That was one prediction I really wish hadn't come true… but of course, it did. One thing about my grandmother…she's rarely—if ever—wrong. Still, despite my hatred of the visions, I can't help but be pleased to think I might become a woman like Yeva; she is the strongest, bravest woman that I have ever met—and her dealings with my father that day proved it. She did not cower because he was a Royal or back down when he provoked her—she stood her ground and dealt with him without resorting to violence—no matter how much she might have wanted to. And her resolve did not waiver; when he came slinking back a week or so later, murmuring apologies and trying to charm her—my grandmother never so much as looked at him. From that day on, whenever he came around, she pretended he didn't exist. If he spoke to her, she stared straight ahead, not responding in any way—until finally he gave up, perhaps realizing that winning her over was a lost cause.

The sight may give us the ability to hear whispers from above… but for me, I don't need to use my gift to hear an angel speak or understand what is said. All I have to do is pay attention and listen whenever my grandmother talks; she may not have wings or a halo—but she's a living, breathing angel, right here on earth.


	3. Chapter 3: Anya—Childhood Memories

**_A couple of FYI's :_**

**_—This is about the oc daughter of Romitri. If you don't like reading non canon characters, you might want to skip this one._**

**_—There are a few spoilers in this to Letting Go || The Mask I Wear. You'll know them when you see them—so if you want to avoid glimpses events that happen in future chapters of that fic, you might want to skip this drabble._**

**_—About the characters in this drabble: Anya Vasilisa Belikova and her brother, Ivan Mason Ibrahim Belikov were jointly created by myself and my writing partner Kate (deathinadustxr) in 2012. I took over fleshing out and Kate took Ivan—Romitri's second child. _**

**_—Anya calls Ivan 'detenysh', which means 'cub' in Russian. There's a story behind that nickname that I might add to the one shot collection—for now if you want to know more, you can find it on her blog in the 'head canons' tag._**

**_—The drabble of Ivan's birth was written by Kate in Dimitri's point of view—and it is a tear jerker. I've add a link to it on my profile so you guys know where to find it—Look under the 'About my Writing Partner' section for 'Gone Too Soon"_**

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><p><strong><em>December Task: Thirty days of character development—Anya<br>Prompt: Favorite childhood memory  
>WC: 4,203_**

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><p>For as long as I can remember, I knew my brother and I were different—though I never thought of us as freaks until the year I started school. Up until then I'd never heard the term used to describe a person—but that all changed within days of our arrival at Saint Vlad's.<p>

I started school a year later than my peers, mostly because of my little brother. You see… we couldn't bear to be separated for long periods of time—though no one understood exactly _why _ that was back then. The thought of going to my going to school all the way in the States had both of us in a panic; we clung to each other, crying for two days straight—not eating or sleeping or even moving from the spot where we'd sunk down on the floor. In the end, Mama and Papa decided to wait a year so we could go together, then as soon as Ivan was old enough, we were delivered to Saint Vlad's.

That's when the trouble began.

There were whispers—God… so many whispers, everywhere we went. The students giggled while the staff gossiped about our parentage—speculating on what was actual fact and what was fiction. They weren't talking about how brave our parents were or how they'd run away and gone into hiding in an attempt to protect my Godmother, the Queen. No, the talk was all about the fact that we had a dhampir mother _and_ father—something that everyone said was impossible.

Like I said before… I already knew we were different—but not for the reason that everybody said. For one thing, we were smart—way smarter than other kids our age; at six years old I was reading at a third grade level and Ivan—who was nine months younger—had almost caught up with me. According to our parents, we were just advanced for our age—but I'd heard Mama and Aunt Vika whispering about out development; we walked and talked a lot sooner than normal kids do…at nine months old I was toddling around on my own and talking up a storm—and the same thing happened with Ivan. Even when we were that young, we were prone to fits of temper— moods that only one person seemed to be able to lift—but as bad as all that was, no one in our family knew about the scariest thing…and I sure wasn't going to tell them.

There's a… connection between my brother and me; it's always been there, since the moment he was born. It's a sense of… knowing how the other one feels , and it never goes away. When one of us is sick or upset, the other always feels it, and at times when one of us sinks into a sullen spell, only one of two things can chase the mood away—holding hands and comforting each other… or spending time with Uncle Ree. Ivan and I never talked about it—and likewise, I never mentioned the strange images that sometimes played through my head or the pretty colored lights I saw dancing out of the corner of my eye; for me, those things were my deepest, darkest secrets—and I knew they proved that all the kids at school were right… I really was a freak

Which brings me to my happiest memory.

I was nine years old that summer, and my brother Ivan was eight. We were home on a break from school—but I wasn't as excited as I would normally be at having two months off from school. I had been grounded for getting in a fight the day before classes had ended—even though it wasn't my fault. A group of Royal Moroi had been picking on my brother—playing a game of keep away with the book that he was reading—I ended the game as fast as I could… by breaking the nose of the boy who had taken Ivan's book. To punish me, my mother had declared that I wasn't allowed to watch television or play with Ivan and Issac for a whole entire week. She said I was supposed to be spending the time thinking about what I'd done and how I could have resolved the problem without resorting to violence—words that made my father chuckle softly and murmur about the apple not falling far from the tree.

To show my disdain for her stupid restrictions, I snuck out of the house and hid away in the center of the hedge maze to sulk—that's where my Godfather found me. The moment I heard someone coming I scrambled into the foliage, though it was hard not to laugh when he started singing.

"Oh where oh where has my little bud gone… oh where oh where can she beeee?"

I giggled—covering my mouth. He cocked his head, studying the bushes. "With her Mama's eyes and her Papa's smile… her beauty is plain to seeeeeee."

"I _don't _have her eyes! I have Papa's!" I peeked out of the bush, scowling at him.

"Sorry little bud—you're the spitting image of your mother, though I'm willing to bet you're going to sprout up like your old man. You'll be a warrior princess—with your mother's gorgeous looks and your father's deadly skills. Stop scowling at me princess… you're going to break my heart." He sank down on the ground, pulling out his fancy cigarettes. "While I do not agree with the severity of your punishment… your mother is only trying to help you learn something that she still hasn't quite got the hang of—controlling that Hathaway-Mazur temper."

"I don't have a temper, I was protecting Detenysh." I eyed him for a moment before untangling myself from the branches, moving over to sit down across from him.

"And that's admirable—but if you get expelled from school, what's your little cub going to do without you?" He tilted his head back, blowing smoke rings up at the sky. "Who's going to look after him if they send you home?"

My stomach knotted—it was something I hadn't considered. Being separated was likely to make both of us sink into what my grandma Janine called 'the blue meanies'—those strange spells of sullen anger that often lasted for days. "They can't do that… can they?"

"They could if you keep beating up on Royals kiddo. That's something they frown on. Not everyone lives like we do Anya—our world has changed a lot, but the Moroi still put themselves on a pedestal and expect the dhampirs to toe the line. It's sick and disgusting—but that's the way it is… for now at least. Yeva seems to think that your generation will change all that somehow. Bottom line is… if you don't follow their rules, they'll kick you out of school and that means you'll be here or at another Academy… far away from Ivan." He reached over, pulling a leaf out of my hair, his bright green eyes looking slightly dazed. "What's wrong—your upset about more than just your mother scolding you. Talk to me sweetheart, I promise I just want to help."

"It's not just the boys taking Ivan's book Uncle Ree… I could probably ignore that or do like Mama said and get the book back without fighting. It's… the stuff they say about us. All the time. I hate it there—I wish Mama and Papa could just teach us here, at home." I felt tears welling up in my eyes, but I didn't wipe them away; instead I just averted my eyes to the ground and let them slide down my cheeks.

He still wasn't looking directly at me—he seemed fascinated by the air around my head. "Is it that stuff about me being your father? Anya… you have to ignore it. You and Ivan… you're miracles… and people just can't understand or accept what that means. You know the truth, sweetheart, that's all that matters and—"

"It's not that! I'm a freak! They all say it all the time—and they're right." I felt a rush of agony—but there was anger mixed in with it too; it was thick and hot and bottomless—and it was always inside me, though I tried to keep it buried down deep so nobody could see it. It made me want to lash out and break things—to tear the people who hurt my little brother into shreds.

"Anya… I want you to take my hand and squeeze it, alright sweetie? Can you do that for your old Uncle Adrian—that's it…" he murmured as I slipped my hand in his, and then… the world turned gold.

There was a rush of warm, comfort as the gold light flickered around us; it chased away the angry feelings the way the sun sometimes chased away storm clouds on a miserable, rainy day. My voice sounded groggy and dazed as I whispered, "You're all gold and sparkly Uncle Ree… Like Sonya and Oksa get when they help Auntie Lissa."

"Oh my God… Oh Jesus… what did I do to you? Anya… sweetheart…" He pulled me into his arms, squeezing me tightly, rambling on so fast I couldn't catch half of what he was saying. "I'm sorry little bud… I didn't know—God… I swear I didn't know."

I buried my face in his chest, not understanding what he meant—feeling completely content and safe as I cuddled up against him. Being with Uncle Ree was like being with Ivan—it made me feel whole and complete in a way nothing else could, washing away all the dark thoughts and feelings and filling me up with sunshine. "Promise me you're never gonna go away, Uncle Ree… we need you. Ivan and me. Just as much as we need Papa and Mama."

"I'm not going anywhere baby girl, I promise." His voice hitched, making me look up at him; his eyes were bright, his tears leaving wet streaks down his face. "Anya… I'm going to ask you some questions… and it's very important you answer me truthfully, okay?"

"I'd never lie to you… you'd know it if I did." I reached up, swiping at his cheek—trying to wipe away his sadness, but I didn't have his magic, so I couldn't chase his blues away.

"When you said I was gold… what did you mean?" He reached for his pack of cigarettes then looked at me and sighed. "Sorry… I know I shouldn't smoke around you—but I have a feeling I'm going to need it."

"I don't want to talk about that."

"I'm sorry… but we have to. Look… I'll go first, alright? A minute ago—when you said I'd know if you lied… do you know _how_ I can tell when you fib?"

"Your magic." I shot him a reproachful look—I wasn't stupid.

"Well… yes… but I actually meant do you understand the specifics." He took a puff off his cigarette, then gestured with his hand. "Every living thing has something called an aura. It's like… a halo, sort of, that's made up of different colors and circles your body. The colors change on what you're feeling… and my magic lets me see the colors. So when you lie… your aura shows it, and I can tell. Does that make sense?"

I thought about it for a minute, trying not to give any indication that I understood far too well. "Sort of… I guess."

"Okay, good. Well a long time ago… back when your mother was bonded to Lissa… sometimes her aura changed. It got a lot of blackness in it that affected the way she felt." His green eyes studied me for a moment, his forehead wrinkling up as he watched me. "Your aura did that a minute ago Anya… and it shouldn't have."

"We have a lot of black days." It slipped out before I could catch it—barely a whisper, but he heard it.

"You and Ivan? Do you get those days when the kids at school pick on you?"

I nodded slowly. "Or when we're apart for too long. I can't see it… not all the time… but I can feel it—and so can he." I looked away from him, feeling hot tears stinging my eyes again. "I told you… they're right. We're freaks, aren't we?"

"No—and I don't ever want to hear you say that again Anya Belikova." His voice was sharp—more stern than he'd ever been with me. "This isn't your fault at all—it's mine. Mine and Lissa's. We played around with magic we didn't understand, not thinking about the consequences. At the time… well…. we did it for the right reasons… but we never imagining how it might affect things."

I was confused—it must have shown in my face; he ground his cigarette out, his arms tightening around me as his lips brushed across my forehead. "I'm about to tell you some things your parents haven't told you… they wanted to wait until you were older… but I know you're smart enough to understand. What I tell you can't leave this space, little bud. This will be our secret, and you can never, ever talk about it—but first I want you to list every little thing that's happened that makes you think you're a freak."

"You won't tell? Not even Aunt Vika?" I buried my face in his neck, whispering against his skin.

"I swear to God I won't tell a soul… but I have a feeling your Aunt already knows—and probably Yeva does too. Those two can see things that most people can't, sweetheart. They get glimpses of the future."

"I think… I do too sometimes. And it scares me. And I see the colors from time to time… out of the corner of my eye. And my brother… I know what he feels." I clung tightly too him, afraid he would pull away—but he didn't.

"What do you mean… you know what he feels?" He asked softly.

"When he's angry or upset… I can feel it. And sometimes… I know what he's thinking. I can tell what he's doing when he's in class across the school—and it's the same for him. And when one of us is having a black day… we can make the other one feel better."

"How?"

"Like this… by hugging… or holding hands. Then it gets all gold and the bad stuff goes away."

"It can't be… it's not possible…" He pulled back, gazing down at me, then chuckled, stroking my cheek. "What am I saying? _You're _ supposed to be impossible… and yet… here you are."

"What's not possible?"

"Just give me a minute to wrap my head around things. Your Aunt… she predicted this. When you and Ivan were just babies. God… what was it she said…. she stared at the two of you and said she saw evolution… two races… combined into one."

"But… aren't we already combined? Dhampirs are part Moroi—everyone knows that," I asked softly, not understanding what he meant.

"Yes… but dhampirs can't see auras, little bud—and dhampirs can't be bonded to one another or bring souls back from the dead... that takes Spirit—Moroi magic. That's something dhampirs don't have. You're special… more special than any of us though." He kissed my forehead again, shifting me so I was sitting in his lap facing away from him, his chin resting on the top of my head. "I'm going to tell you a story, and you're not going to interrupt. It's something your parents don't like talking about… and I think you'll understand why. When your mother was pregnant with you… a couple of things happened. The first was just an accident—she slipped and fell, and was having a lot of pain in her stomach… do you understand what that means?"

I nodded, frowning. "Pregnant ladies are supposed to be really careful so nothing happens to the baby, right?"

"Mhmm… well your father was beside himself—from the moment they found out you were coming, he was worried something would happen, since dhampirs can't have kids together the way a Moroi and a dhampir can—"

"Then how did they have us?" I interrupted—it was something I'd always wondered about.

"What did I say about interruptions?" He squeezed me tightly, making a growling noise. "A lot of it I can't explain—it's way over my head, so I know you wouldn't understand. It all boils down to how much Spirit was used on your parents over the years, okay?"

I sighed. "That doesn't explain anything—"

"Look when you're older I promise I'll sit down with you and your parents and Dr. Olendzki and all her charts and diagrams and we'll all talk about it okay? But for now let me tell my story—unless you'd rather I just left you here and went back to the painting I was doing?"

"Sorry Uncle Ree." I snuggled back against him, buttoning my lips.

"Where was I? Oh yeah… your father asked me to heal her—which I was planning on doing anyway. I did and she was fine and no one thought anything about it… then about a week before you were born… your mother went missing." He was silent for a minute, his arms tightening around me; I tilted my head back to look at him—his expression was almost… fierce. "A very bad woman kidnapped her… She wanted to hurt your mother and you—"

"Nobody could take Mama anywhere—she'd kick their butt," I scoffed.

"Well this woman did—she shot her with a little dart that knocked your mother out."

"But… why?"

"Because she was a psychotic bit—" he glanced down at me, scowling as he caught himself. "She was crazy and obsessed with your Russian Warlord of a father—she didn't want anyone having his babies but her."

"Crazy like Auntie Liss was?" It was no secret that my Aunt had gone insane—or that Uncle Ree and Aunt Vika had helped her find her way back from the darkness.

"No—Lissa couldn't help what happened to her. Tasha Ozera could. Now stop interrupting—Jesus Christ, you're so much like your mother it's scary."

"Am not," I huffed under my breath.

"Are too. _Anyway—_ for a week we tried to find your mother, but there was no sign of her… your father was out of his mind with worry… and well… so was I. Your mother has always been very special to me… but that's something we'll talk about when you're older. Much… _much_ older—like say… twenty one." I huffed, making him chuckle softly before he continued. "I kept trying to use my magic to find her… but the woman that had her wouldn't let her sleep—she knew we'd try and find her in her dreams."

"Uncle Ree… I'm very sorry to interrupt… but what 's this got to do with me being a freak?" I tilted my head, staring up at him—trying not to sulk.

"Is that your polite way of telling me I'm rambling, little bud? Fine. I'll give you the abridged version—your Aunt and I tracked down your mother in a vision… but I got there almost too late. She was dying, Anya… you were stuck inside her. I did the best I could… but you were barely breathing by the time I got you out… and then Rose's aura started fading… she started to bleed out. Do you know what that means?"

"She was bleeding to death… cause of me?" I was shocked—why hadn't my mother told me?

"No—well… because of the birth, but also because of the things the woman did to her. So I used Spirit on you both—more Spirit than I've ever used in my life. It almost killed me… but I managed to heal you both. You started crying… and your mother's aura flared—right as I blacked out."

"You saved us?" I wiggled around, resting my cheek against his chest—it took a minute because my legs got in the way—I was already tall and lanky. "Cause you love us?"

"Mhmm… and I think that what I did that day… and what Lissa and I did in the past when we used Spirit on your mother and father… is why you're having the problems. One of the things the Doctor told your parents was that our Spirit messed with their DNA. For me to use so much Spirit on you when you were born… well… like I said… it's my fault."

"But what about Detenysh? He's like me… he has the same problems I do."

"And he shares your parents DNA sweetheart—plus… your birth being so difficult… it messed up things inside your Mama. When she was pregnant with your brother… she almost lost him a couple times during the first few months—I had to heal her quite a bit, each time using more Spirit than the last. Anya… when your brother was born…" he took a deep breath, glancing down at me, 'do you remember that day?"

I did—even though I had been just a baby myself; it was one of the things that worried my mother—that my memory was so clear. "Papa told me the angels had taken him… but he was wrong—Ivan was just sleeping."

"No—he wasn't Anya. He was stillborn. Everyone thought his coming to was a miracle… that the CPR Dr. O had done had somehow revived him—or that his vital signs had been so faint that they missed it—but it wasn't. Dimitri told me what happened—he lifted you up so that you could see your brother—and when you kissed his forehead… Ivan opened his eyes for the first time. That day…I saw something that I never told anyone but Vika—when I looked at you and your brother … there were flashes of gold in your auras. There one minute and gone the next… but I know what I saw. For a minute they were like a Spirit users… like your Aunts when she has a vision. I told myself I was imagining things… but obviously I was wrong."

"What does that mean though?" I asked, playing with his hand. I was smart for my age—but the vast amount of information he'd given me was overloading my brain. I felt almost drained—and I was filled with a longing to run to my brother's side.

"I don't know little bud," he whispered, lacing his fingers though mine and squeezing my hand gently, "but somehow… I think you and your brother have a bond between you. And I think that it's probably going to get stronger the older you get. I don't have all the answers—I wish I did… but I promise you, as long as I live, I'll be right here beside you, helping you figure things out. Okay?"

"And you won't tell anyone? Except Auntie Vik—she's okay, since you think she already knows."

"That's right—now quick… give me a kiss to seal the deal!" He made a smacking noise as I stretched up and kissed him, making me giggle against his lips. "Now come on—I'll go pick a fight with your mother so you can sneak in to see your brother… but if she punches me you're going to owe me another twenty kisses."

He stood up, swinging me up on his shoulders—a difficult thing since I was fairly tall for my age. I hung on to his hair, looking out over the top of the maze in the direction of the house; my Aunt stood on the porch with a worried look on her face—her eyes fastened on the maze. "Auntie Vik looks upset. We better hurry."

"Like I said… she knows things little bud. We'll just have to convince her there's nothing to worry about, won't we? After all… those of us that are special have to stick together."

I never told my Uncle how much the talk that day helped me; whenever things at school got bad, I thought about the things he said. I was able to ignore the people who called me a freak—because _he_ told me that I was special. I was able to believe the things he said—because I believed in _him._

I'm all grown up now—with a baby of my own; she inherited her grandfather's beautiful emerald green eyes and a heavy dose of his charm—but she inherited something else too. When I stare into her eyes and see the intelligence in them, or hear her babbling out sentences that are far too advanced for her age, I remember what Uncle Ree said that day. And in a few years, I'll be asking him to take his granddaughter for a walk in the hedge maze—and to explain to her what it means to be special… the same way he explained it to me.

_I love you Uncle Ree… for always._


	4. Chapter 4: Rose—Irrational Fears

December Task: Thirty days of character development—Rose  
>Prompt: Do you have any irrational fears? What are they?<br>W/C: 181

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><p>Seriously?: What the hell kind of question is that? I don't have <em>any<em> irrational fears—there's a damned good reason for every single thing that I'm afraid of. If I were scared of something stupid like say… balloons or frigging ladybugs—that would be irrational. But being afraid of losing Dimitri again or Liss going insane… _those_ things could _actually happen._

I'm afraid of being abandoned, but guess what? With my personality and temper, there's a chance that could happen too. One day everyone could up and decide that they've had enough of my shit—that I'm just not worth the headache—and they could walk out of my life the same way my mom did when I was a little kid. So that fear isn't irrational either—because it happened to me before.

Hell, the only fear I have that could even be _considered_ irrational is my phobia about spiders… but if you ask me, since some of those disgusting little fuckers can kill you with a single bite—being afraid of them is actually the _smart_ thing to do.


	5. Chapter 5: Anya—Irrational Fears

December Task: Thirty days of character development—Anya  
>Prompt: Do you have any irrational fears? What are they?<p>

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><p>I do not like doctors—I never have and I probably never will. The sole exception to that is the Moroi physician that has been taking care of me for as long as I can remember—but I don't think of her as a doctor at all, Aunt Izzy is one of the family.<p>

I know that people who dedicate their lives to medicine aren't likely to try and hurt me, but my fear is deep rooted—it goes all the way back to my childhood and the things I heard my family whispering about when they thought I couldn't overhear. For years, they were worried that the Council would somehow locate us—that they'd send the guardians to try and take me away. I remember one time my grandfather warned them that back at Court there were Moroi doctors just waiting to get their hands on me; the Council planned to run all kinds of tests on me—with or without my parent's consent. They wanted to find out how it was that two dhampirs had conceived a natural child… and to determine whether or not such an aberration should be allowed to live.

By the time I was old enough for school the Council's witch hunt had ended; my grandfather won in the end—and Aunt Lissa reclaimed her throne—but the damage had already been done… to my parents and to me. We were all overly cautious when it came to the subject of doctors, and still are too this day. Even though Saint Basil's had a direct order from the Queen that no staff doctors or nurses could ever examine my brother or me, Mama and Papa are still scared that it will happen and that someone will steal us away, turning us into lab rats. That's my greatest fear—it scares me even more than the thought of being turned Strigoi like Papa was.

Those whispered discussions… hearing the fear in my parent's voices… it will stay with me forever—haunting me until the day they put me in my grave.


	6. Chapter 6: Rose—Trust

December Task: Thirty days of character development—Rose  
>Prompt: Who does your character trust? Why?<p>

* * *

><p>A couple of years ago if you'd asked me that question, the list would have had two names on it—Lissa's and my own. For years I had to trust in myself and my own ingenuity to keep her safe—and trust that she would listen when I told her what we had to do. Then Dimitri came along and his name shot straight to the top of the list—because honestly… I trust him a hell of a lot more than I trust myself at times.<p>

When push came to shove, I grudgingly had to add Christian's name—because no matter how much he bitches and moans about me, he's always got my back. As more time passed, Eddie and Adrian got added—and even Abe too. Sometimes my mother makes the cut—depending on my mood—and Mia proved herself to be pretty loyal when she came back to help me fight.

It's funny, you know? My whole life I felt alone—like I was like an orphan with no one I could count on, but now? Now I realize that I was never really alone—even when it seemed like I had no one I could turn to. I just had to open my eyes and _see _ who was there for me. Once I did… well… that damned list is getting longer and longer all the time.


	7. Chapter 7: Vika—Trust

December Task: Thirty days of character development—Vika

Prompt: Who does your character trust? Why?

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><p>When it comes to trusting people, I used to be much more open; I took people at their word, thinking that what they said was true—after all, what reason would they have to lie to me? That was before the incident with Rolan, mind you—after that… I found it was much more difficult to even believe in the people who had been friends for years. I became suspicious of everyone around me—even distrusting my sisters—and I honestly thought that the part of me that was <em>capable <em> of having faith in people had been damaged beyond repair.

Adrian… proved me wrong.

Everyone told me he was bad news—that I should avoid him at all costs because if I didn't I would be hurt. But from the first moment I saw him… I felt something deep inside me stir; it was the part of me that I'd thought was gone forever—and it was telling me to listen to my heart and put my trust in _him. _ It told me to ignore other peoples judgments—to make my own conclusions based on the things he said and did; I listened to that soft voice inside of me—and do you know what happened?

He was honest with me—right from the start.

At times it really hurt me to hear the truth coming from his lips; finding out about his relationship with Roza and the problems he had with my brother nearly smashed my heart to smithereens—but in the long run, it was worth the price of the pain.

Because Adrian... he taught me how to believe again—in myself and in other people.


	8. Chapter 8: Rose—Scars

December Task: Thirty days of character development—Rose  
>Prompt: Do you have any scars?<p>

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><p>Sometimes I stand in front of the mirror and stare at it; it is ugly and raised, marring the smooth skin that rests between my breasts. From time to time it aches—a deep, burning pain that radiates from somewhere within me; it's purely psychological—a phantom pain like the ones amputees suffer when they can feel an aching deep inside whatever limb they've lost.<p>

It's a reminder of deception—and of the charges I once faced; I often wonder exactly how long she planned to frame me. Did Tasha spend months working out what she would do—or did the opportunity just present itself and she grabbed it with both hands? It is something that plays at my mind—an answer I will never know.

Sometimes when I am with my friends, I touch the spot unconsciously—perhaps to remind myself that the bullet didn't win… the steady beat of my heart beneath my fingertips reminds me that I fought death and won. Lissa has offered to try and heal it away at least a hundred times since that day; she's my best friend—she knows all my flaws, and vanity is pretty near the top of the towering list of them. She knows that it plays at my mind—that pale, slightly puckered white scar; it stands out against my tanned skin like a glaringly bright beacon, catching my eye whenever I undress.

I always tell her no—though I can't explain why. How do I make her understand that as much as I hate it… it's a reminder of what I did that day? That I fulfilled the one thing I'd been training for since childhood—I put her first, no matter what the cost. It is ugly and I hate it… but it is my medal of honor; it is proof that when push came to shove, I acted without thought and did what I was born to do. I protected my best friend—and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

I just hope the next time it happens… the scar isn't quite so big.

Or anywhere that I can see it.


	9. Chapter 9: Vika—Scars

December Task: Thirty days of character development—Vika  
>Prompt: Do you have any scars?<p>

* * *

><p>Whenever people talk about scars, they always seem to refer only to the ones that we wear on our skin that are visible; it's odd how they never mentions the ones we bear inside—as if not seeing them makes them somehow less real. The scars we bear on our hearts or on our psyche aren't any less painful just because a person can't see them—in fact, those are the ones that generally take the longest time to heal.<p>

When I hear that word… _scar_… I don't think about the marks on my back from a cruelly wielded belt or the numerous reminding of training injuries that decorate my skin; I think about how I still cringe when I hear my father's name—or how my mama turns pale whenever she gets a glimpse of someone who resembles him. I think about my big brother, crying out in the night—haunted by the things he did that he was powerless to stop, or about the sad, wistful look of longing that Roza often wore when she sat and watched my mother move about the kitchen back in Baia. I think about Adrian and the demons that haunt him—things he can't escape from because they are conjured up by his mind.

All of us have scars—be they from years of neglect or ones from hurtful actions and cruel words or from things we've done that shame us. Those scars… they are the ones that never fully scab over; they fester under our skin, poisoning us slowly from within. They're always there, taunting reminders of the things we want to forget most.

So when you ask me about my scars, I'm sorry—but you'll have to be more specific. Because I am covered with _both _ kinds, inside and out—and some of them will never, ever fade away.


	10. Chapter 10: Rose—Turning Point

December Task: Thirty days of character development—Rose  
>Prompt: What was a turning point in your life?<p>

* * *

><p>I remember this one time when Lissa and I were younger—probably six or seven years old; when recess was called we went running outside, both of us wanting to swing. By the time we got to the swing sets, only one was free—all the others had all been claimed by our classmates who'd managed to get out the door first. Without really consciously being aware of making the decision to do so, I stepped aside and let her claim it—watching as she went higher and higher, silently wishing it was me.<p>

She never even thought to let me take a turn—and I never thought to ask.

That's a perfect example of the first thirteen years of our friendship; what Lissa wanted or needed, I made sure she got—always putting her desires and wellbeing ahead of my own. In all those years of self-sacrifice, I never asked her for one single thing—not until the night I lost Dimitri in the cave.

Once again… she never thought to offer, only that time I _did_ ask—and begged and plead and cried—and she _refused_.

That was the beginning of a major revelation for me—one that grew stronger a week or so later when she tried to use her compulsion to _force_ me to stay on campus with her instead of just accepting that there was something I _had_ to do. I'll never forget the words she hurled at me—' "Friends don't abandon each other—if you were my friend, you wouldn't do it." In that moment, when I felt like I'd lost my soul—when my grief was so strong that it hurt to even _breathe_, she was thinking of herself and what she wanted—not what was best for _me._

Still, I tried to ignore it—because that's what friends do; they overlook each other's flaws and shortcomings and forgive them. Telling myself that, I shoved aside my hurt and anger at her actions, giving her absolution and burying my feelings deep down inside—and for a while I actually managed to forget about how betrayed I'd felt.

Right up until the moment when she stomped on my heart again.

After Dimitri was restored… when she got pissed because I was trying to make him see me so I could talk to him and _help _him move past the things he'd done… all those feelings I'd suppressed came roaring back up to the surface—only this time they flat out refused to be banished again. They lingered in my head, poking and prodding at me, and they didn't go away until after I'd been shot. It was a turning point for me, spending days in that bed recovering with nothing to occupy me but the thoughts that circled trough my brain. I had a painful truth I had to acknowledge before I could move on, just like Dimitri did. It was one I had to face, no matter how much it might hurt me.

From the very beginning, Lissa _never_ thought of me first—and she probably never will.

I took a bullet for my best friend—would it ever occur to her to do the same? History—as they say—repeats itself; her past actions spoke as clearly as if she were standing right beside me, shouting the answer in my ear.

_No._

I love Lissa—I always will; she is my best friend—my sister—so I force myself to forget about the fact she tends to be too self-centered when it comes to my feelings and needs. I am mature enough to accept it and to let it slide off me without getting angry or wrapped up in how one sided our friendship often is—but that doesn't mean I don't feel hurt every single time she thinks only of herself. It's something I'll never mention or even hint at—I'll just suffer the pain in silence.

Lissa's feelings are the ones that matter; that's how it's always been—and that's how it will always be.


	11. Chapter 11: Vika—Turning Point

December Task: Thirty days of character development—Vika

Prompt: What was a turning point in your life?

* * *

><p>I think that it is quite impossible to fully explain how it affects you when a loved one dies. It—like so many other things in life—is something that a person must experience firsthand in order to properly comprehend. The loss you feel is crushing, but even worse is the never ending sense of <em>missing<em> that person; there is a hole in your soul that nothing can fill—because the person that died owned that piece of you… and still does, even though they are gone.

You try to move on as if your life hasn't changed; after all, you're still here—you still have to do all the ridiculous, mundane things that make up a life. You have to eat and sleep and go to work or school—those things don't stop just because you are grieving, no matter how much you might want them to. So you put on a false smile to fool the world and try to act like nothing is wrong—only it is superficial… inside… you are _raging._ Against God and the world and the people that were involved, but most of all—though you don't want to face it—you're mad at the person who died.

_Because they left you behind—and you just were not ready for the final goodbye._

Time passes, and as trite as it is to say… life does go on. The anger and heartache seem to fade, replaced by an eerie sort of numbness. You actually start to believe that maybe your grief has been spent—but you're wrong… oh God above… so wrong. Out of the blue a song comes on the radio or you see a book on the shelf of a bookstore that happened to be one of their favorites—and a tidal wave of misery crashes down over you, drowning you all over again with all the hurt and anguish and agony that you thought you had banished for good.

_And you realize that the pain is eternal—it will be with you for the rest of your days._

I was lucky; the day after that dismal realization echoed through my mind and lodged itself deep down in the depths of my heart—ripping the scabs off of my wounded, weeping soul… our phone rang—and my mother cried out three words I will _never_ forget.

_"__DIMITRI IS ALIVE!"_

How can I describe the emotions that flared to life inside me in that moment? Disbelief was certainly there—at war with massive amounts of joy. And there was fear… so much fear—did I dare trust what I was hearing? Could I bear if I let myself give in to the surge of hope and relief I felt, only to learn they were mistaken and Dimitri—my loving, wonderful big brother Dimitri—was still gone?

I dropped to my knees in the hall where I'd been standing, begging God and the Blessed Mother to please let it be true. Still, it wasn't until weeks later when I opened the door and saw him standing there… when I threw myself in his arms and felt the warmth of his body and the beat of his heart against mine that I let myself _believe._

The cold, numb feeling I'd been living with drained away, replaced by an overwhelming sense of peace and contentment—and love, so much love that I felt I couldn't contain it all—emotions so strong that I'd never felt anything like them in my life. Dimitri was alive—we'd _all_ been given a second chance—and I swore to God and the Saints and anyone who was listening that not one moment of that time would be wasted.

Losing my brother and getting him back… it opened my eyes to so many things—but mostly to one thing. The people we love—that's what's important. Our time with them is finite—in the blink of an eye it could end. We have to savor each laugh and gentle touch, committing to memory the little things like the way their eyes crinkle up at the corners when they smile and the soft silky texture of their hair against your cheek.

Those are the things we are usually too busy to notice; we wrap ourselves up in our petty wants and foolish things, not understanding that those important tiny details can slip away before we can appreciate them—and once that happens… you'll regret it for the rest of your life.

By the time you realize you miss those little things that seem so inconsequential… it's too late. Your loved one is gone—and no matter how much you pray and cry and beg... they won't be coming back. I tell you this from my heart—take time to appreciate your loved ones. Savor the scent of their skin and the sound of their voice and memorize the light in their eyes—don't put it off until tomorrow.

Because tomorrow… tomorrow might just be too late.


	12. Chapter 12: Vika—Hobbies

**Prompt: What are your characters hobbies? What do they do with their free time?**

I should probably explain something right off the bat—the curriculum at the academy I attend is very different than Saint Vlad's. For one thing, though both academies are in session year round, I've been told that at Saint Vladimir's the class load is lighter in the summer—to accommodate the Royal students who vacation with their families. That's not the case with my school at all—our course load is the same year round, and our academic day is much longer too. From a very young age, we are required to take courses in a multitude of languages; then, when we are older, we move on to studying government and culture for different countries too. Since we don't know where we will be assigned—the chances it will be somewhere in Russia are practically non-existent, since most of the Royals relocated to other places when the Royal Court moved—there are a myriad of things we have to learn to help us prepare for spending our lives in other countries, far away from our homeland.

In addition, at Saint Basil's we are required to take 4 enrichment courses a year. The reasoning behind it is simple—the administrators want each novice to have a well-rounded education in an assortment of extracurricular activities. Having a broad range means we will be able to mesh well with whatever Royal we are assigned to, no matter what their interests might be. Every quarter, the class we take changes; the theory is that by the time we leave Saint Basil's, we will have a fundamental knowledge of things like classical music and the fine arts. In the very least, we will know enough to be able to make it through a discussion of the artwork in a museum or the music at the symphony, or whatever leisurely outing our charges decide to attend.

The problem is… I've always done horribly in those classes, no matter what they were covering. It's not that I'm not interested or don't want to succeed—I'm always excited at the start of the course and eager to learn new things. Unfortunately for me, being enthusiastic isn't enough to make up for a lack of natural talent. Take the time I was assigned the flute for orchestra—I practiced so much that my lips and facial muscles were constantly sore. It was so bad that it actually _hurt _ for me to smile, but I kept it up despite the pain, because I wanted to make music. Despite my dedication, the sounds I produced were so dreadful that the instructor told me she would give me a passing grade if I promised to never play the flute again.

Choir wasn't much better; I ended up mouthing the words to most of the songs—bluffing my way through the class, right up until the teacher gave us solo pieces. Apparently… according to him… I am tone deaf. He actually went so far as to compare my singing to the sound of a cat yowling as it was slowly tortured.

When it rolled around to art, I did a little better; first, we covered the history of the subject and identifying different styles—which was easy for me to do, since I love beautiful things. My success took an abrupt nosedive, however, when it the time rolled around for us to actually _create_ something. It's really better not to relieve the humiliation I felt—let's just say that the drawings and paintings I created made Paul's artwork that hangs on our refrigerator at home look like it was done by Rembrandt.

Dance, pottery, poetry… all of them were lost causes—when it comes to creative talent, I haven't got a shred. The sad thing is… I wanted it—more than anything. I _wanted _ to be able to express myself artistically—to make something beautiful out of nothing at all. Sadly, there wasn't much I could do since my attempts all ended dismally, no matter how much I tried.

But then, last quarter… I _finally_ found my niche—in the most surprising place imaginable. It's funny—when the class started, I thought it would be a bore. I mean… photography? Really? What's so special about that? Anyone can snap a picture—Moroi girls around campus were constantly snapping selfies with their phones, and they certainly hadn't had any kind of formal training. I was pleasantly surprised that my opinion changed drastically after the very first class; my instructor did a presentation that day, to introduce us to the subject matter, showing us photographs by Ansel Adams and Subhankar Banerjee—beautiful landscapes that completely stole my breath away. In that moment, I was hooked. I was positive that I'd finally found a way I could express myself—after all, I might not be able to draw a straight line or paint a sunset capturing its vibrant, blazing colors, but I could certainly point a camera and push a stupid button.

We were informed that throughout the course, we would be required to snap photographs of anything and everything that might catch our eye; Mrs. Ramodya said they would be used in a project that was due at the end of the quarter—and that _one_, single project would determine our grade for the entire thirteen week course. Thought I was worried about failing at yet another subject, my excitement made it impossible to fret—especially when she started handing out cameras to each of us. They weren't the best by any means, but that didn't matter to me—I didn't care one bit about anything other than the fact the object in my hands would enable me to _finally_ create something, and _hopefully_ succeed at it.

From that moment on, that camera was my constant companion; every night before I turned in, I would upload all the pictures I had taken to the rickety old computer in my room, amazed at how good they'd turned out. For once, my hard work and determination paid off; at the end of the session, my grade was the highest one in the class—_in fact, _Mrs. Ramodya liked my project so much that she asked to keep the collage I'd made to use as an example for future students.

It actually _hurt_ when I had to return that camera; I felt like I was losing a part of myself, as stupid as that sounds. Immediately I called Mama up and begged her to purchase me an inexpensive camera for an early birthday gift to replace the one I'd had to turn in—I figured I could pick it up the next time I was at home. I didn't have to wait nearly that long; she was so pleased that I had done well in my class that she went out and bought me a camera the next day—one that was much nicer than the one I'd been using—and had them ship it overnight to Saint Basil's.

I'll never be good enough to make a profession of it or anything, but you know what? That's okay with me. I'm content to have a hobby that helps me capture the beauty that surrounds us—the tiny things we often overlook, like the riotous colors of the autumn leaves on the trees or the way the early morning dew sparkles on a spider's web.

I suppose it is a good thing that I won't be going into service—I can't imagine many Royal Moroi would care about such things. They would much rather be seen at a fancy concert or ballet than to gaze at silly photographs. But me? I'll take spending time outside and admiring the beauty of nature over sitting in an overcrowded audience watching someone perform any day of the week.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: I think there are going to be waaaay more of these than I anticipated, since people have been sending in character development questions/prompts on the tumblr accounts—not that I mind in the slightest, it's really fun to get into the characters heads and see how they process the questions. If anyone has something they'd like to see one of the characters explore (any character in the series, doesn't matter who) feel free to shoot me a message here or on one of the tumblr accounts and I'll add it to the list. Just be sure to add who the prompt is for to the message. ;o)**_


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